


Runs in the Family

by Lucy OGara (judo_lin)



Category: The Adventures of Sinbad (Canada TV)
Genre: Crack Crossover, Don't Read This, F/M, This is very wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judo_lin/pseuds/Lucy%20OGara
Summary: I did a thing. A very bad thing. It's for atamascolily. No one else should probably read it, because as I said, it's a very wrong sort of thing. But it's G-rated (okay, one swear).
Relationships: Maeve/Sinbad (Adventures of Sinbad)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	Runs in the Family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atamascolily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atamascolily/gifts).



> I told you not to read it. I'm telling you again. And I purposefully did not add the other fandom because I don't want it crosslisted.

Hot sun pours down, liquid gold and scorching. There’s no humidity, just dry, baking heat. Most of the populace of Basra seek respite from the unrelenting temperature indoors, the markets still as the afternoon blazes.

Sinbad sits in a dim tavern with a number of other patrons, stuffy but safe from the glare. Awnings shield the windows from the worst of the sun’s rays. Some people pick listlessly at bowls of chickpeas and rice, while others try to cool their thirst with wine or _laban_. Sinbad cups a mug in his hands but doesn’t drink. The wine is room-temperature, and today room-temperature is boiling.

The door opens, harsh light slanting into the room as two weary, hot men trudge inside. They shut it behind themselves quickly, knowing their fellow patrons near the doorway will raise hell if they don’t. Sinbad glances up, but neither man is the one he’s waiting for. They’re locals, black-haired, wiry men built for this climate. Not who he’s looking for.

He looks once more around the half-full tavern. Most people sit alone or in pairs, one larger group tossing dice halfheartedly near the dark hearth. A few read from books as they attempt interest in their meals; this is Basra, after all. The room is close and stifling, thick with the smells of unwashed bodies, sour wine, and spices. It’s a familiar smell—comforting. Something Sinbad has known his whole life.

If Maeve knew he was here, what he intends to do, she’d kill him. Murder him gleefully—or at the very least refuse to marry him, which she’s done multiple times since her reluctant agreement months ago. He gets it. Marriage isn’t her thing, but it’s important to him that he does this right. She agreed because she knows it’s important to him but she also dragged her feet at every turn, threatening to renege at the slightest irritation.

If she knew what he was about to do, she wouldn’t just threaten to call everything off. She’d actually do it, and quite possibly maim him for good measure. That’s why he’s planned everything very carefully. Dim-Dim set up the meeting. Maeve thinks he’s with Omar finalizing the paperwork. What could possibly go wrong?

The door opens again. Sinbad squints to see the male figure backlit by harsh sun.

This is him. He knows it the minute he sees him. The man is a stranger, but something in his easy, long-limbed stride is all Maeve.

The man closes the door behind himself, blinking as his eyes adjust to the darkness inside the tavern.

Sinbad rises, heart beating just a little faster. He’s not nervous, he tells himself. He’s not. Except he is, and he’s not very good at lying to himself.

The man’s head turns swiftly toward the movement. He walks purposefully, with just the slightest suggestion of a limp on one side. An old injury, Sinbad notes, long healed but never quite the same.

“Sir.” He extends his hand.

The man takes it. His palm is dry despite the heat, callused from decades of work. His handshake is firm. “You must be the sailor.”

They size each other up, neither disguising it. The man is taller than Sinbad, which he expects. Maeve herself is a tall woman, nearly standing eye-to-eye with him. Sinbad loves her height, her strength. He likes that she’s no delicate, breakable thing. In some ways she’s tougher than him, and he exults in it. This man is broad-shouldered, his body hard with work despite his advancing years. His daughter doesn’t really resemble him, but something about the way they move, their confident stride and quick, calculating gaze, tells Sinbad without a doubt that this is Maeve’s father.

He’s good-looking, Sinbad supposes. More rugged than properly handsome. His nose is a little too big for his face, his brow ridge broad and pronounced. He’s a shade darker than his daughter, though whether by nature or years of exposure to the sun, Sinbad has no idea. He’s no redhead, light brown hair feathering across his brow, gray at his temples. He’s clean-shaven, like Sinbad, and a very crooked grin curls one side of his face as he releases Sinbad’s hand.

“Does my girl know I’m here?”

“No, sir.”

The man sinks onto a bench across the table from Sinbad. He’s a big man, somewhat rawboned. Like Doubar, he probably always feels slightly awkward in surroundings meant for smaller men. He carries no extra weight, but the size of his frame sets him apart from the men around him.

“I was surprised when I got your message,” he says, stretching his legs out under the table.

“Why?” Sinbad sits as well. “Wine?”

The man considers. “Is it as hot as this room?”

“Hotter.”

“Pass.” He rests his wrists on the table. “I never expected my girl to marry.” That crooked grin flashes again. “Her brother, yes. He has more of his mother in him. Maeve’s all mine.”

“She did tell me Celts don’t marry. Not like my people do.”

“Celts?” The man looks up as if surprised. “Right. Celts.” He rubs the back of his neck with one big-knuckled hand. “Their mother talked me into it. I couldn’t give her up and marriage was what she wanted, so…” He shrugs, a sheepish little smile hovering over his mouth for an instant. “What was your name again?”

“Sinbad.” He clears his throat. “I’m captain of the ship Maeve sails on.” Did Dim-Dim tell the man anything at all?

“Captain of your own ship?” The man looks up. “Good man.” He nods a little, as if pleased with this.

“Yes. The Nomad. I’ve had her for years.”

“I’ve had mine since I was probably a little younger than you.”

Sinbad’s head snaps up. “You’re a sailor?” He’s...dumbfounded. He knows virtually nothing about this man, but this feels like something Maeve or Dermott ought to have mentioned. Dim-Dim, even, if not the twins. His old mentor knew how to get in touch with Maeve’s father. Shouldn’t he also know at least that much about the man?

“Ah...retired, I guess you’d say. As I said, Maeve’s mother is very persuasive.” He shakes his head a little. “Anyway, I know my way around a ship.”

The man is being very, very careful with his words. Sinbad can hear it instantly, the way he measures each phrase in his head before he speaks, testing the nuances of every word. For what reason, he can’t begin to fathom. He didn’t ask the man here for any nefarious purpose. Well, he considers, Maeve would probably say so, but she’s really being a little unreasonable about this topic.

But there’s a reason for the man’s caution; no one speaks just this side of code without grounds. Sinbad looks at the man before him more closely. “What’s the name of your ship? Maybe I’ve heard of it.”

The man laughs. His chuckle is as dry as the baking heat of the city. “You haven’t.”

“Try me.” He shouldn’t pry. He knows he shouldn’t. But the man’s got him curious.

Maeve’s father studies him. “The Falcon,” he says after a moment.

No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. “Fast name. Is she?”

“The fastest,” the man says proudly. “At least she was. Twenty years ago.” His shoulders shrug slightly, a brief movement under his loose shirt. “Feels like a lifetime, sometimes.”

Sinbad is an honest merchant sailor, and an adventurer when he can afford to be. But he knows perfectly well what evasive words and a lighting-fast ship add up to. “You’re a pirate.” He grins broadly, proud that he solved this riddle so quickly.

The man laughs loudly. “I was,” he concedes. “I guess. From a certain point of view.”

“Maeve’s mother reformed you.” This makes perfect sense now. Why an upstanding woman—or at least a presumably upstanding woman—would try to reform a pirate, he doesn’t know. Gods know he never managed with Talia. But if his wife is anything at all like her daughter, Sinbad knows this man didn’t stand a chance. Once she decided to reform him, he was going to be reformed.

“Eh.” The man’s answer is evasive. “She tried.”

“Did she come with you?” Sinbad hesitates. He’s not sure he’s ready to meet Maeve’s mother. Her father is tough enough.

“No. Too busy. She’ll come when she gets grandchildren. Probably not before.”

This surprises Sinbad, and yet it doesn’t. Maeve has never once mentioned missing her mother. And it’s not like this marriage will be some grand affair. Maeve barely agreed to a legal union and flat-out refused the lengthy rituals his part of the world is so enamored of.

“I’m already fucking you,” she told him baldly when he protested, “and I’m no one’s property to give away. Pretending I’m a maiden is stupid, and pretending I’m a piece of cargo to be traded will get you killed.” And that was that.

But still. Sinbad has no idea how long it’s been since Maeve and her mother last saw each other. “Too busy to visit her daughter?”

“She’s a senator.”

He frowns. “A what?”

“Ah...a politician?”

Oh.

“Busy all the time. Never home. Always meeting with people.” The man waves his hand. “Smarter than me. Far smarter.”

“So you left piracy and entered politics?”

The man smiles his crooked grin. “A different sort of dishonesty, some would say.” He stretches his back as he rests on the bench. “Hotter than hell here. Reminds me of the place I met my wife’s brother.” He inhales a deep breath of hot, stuffy air. “I met him first. He and his old mentor. Real nice old man, but got us in a hell of a lot of trouble.” His eyes turn inward as he recalls a time long ago. “Your Dim-Dim reminds me of him a little. All the spooky sorcery stuff.”

“I take it you’re not a magician.”

The man snorts. “Not at all. That mess is from my wife’s side.” He nods at the rainbow bracelet affixed to Sinbad’s wrist. “I see you have the mark.”

“You know what it is?” Sinbad sure doesn’t. Dim-Dim seems to, but as so often, he refuses to explain what he knows.

“Trouble,” the man says flatly. “Do yourself a favor and keep out of it as much as you can. Even Maeve wasn’t keen to learn until that mess with Dermott. Then she had no choice.”

“I know it’s not my place to ask,” Sinbad says slowly, “but why did you take up with a family of sorcerers if you don’t trust magic?”

A sheepish smile touches the man’s mouth. “I love her. Sometimes that’s enough.” He shakes himself a little. “Why’d you call me here, kid? It wasn’t to hear my thoughts about th...ings. Magic.” He clears his throat.

Sinbad takes a slow breath and steels himself. “Among my people, when a man wants to marry, it’s customary for his father to ask the woman’s father for permission to join their families. My parents are dead. I thought Maeve’s were, too, until Dermott said otherwise. I asked Dim-Dim to bring you here so I could ask—”

The man shakes his head vigorously. “Stop. Don’t say another word.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, kid. I’m not so good with advice. Like I said, I’m not the smart one in this family. But I know my girl. If you expect her to actually sign that contract and agree to be your wife, you need to shut your mouth right now.”

Sinbad frowns. “I’m trying to do the honorable thing. I would have done it months ago if I’d known.”

“And if you had, you wouldn’t be about to marry my daughter.”

Okay, now Sinbad’s really confused. “Are you saying you don’t give permission?”

“I’m saying that if Maeve ever finds out this conversation happened, we will both be dead meat.” The man’s crooked grin is nowhere to be seen, and he leans forward slightly, in complete earnestness. “I don’t own that kid. I never did. Neither of them. Dermott belonged to the—to sorcery. Learning. History, the more esoteric the better. And Maeve was a free spirit. Her own person. She’s Corell—ah, Celt. To the bone. She needs no one’s permission to make up her own mind, and if I give it to you she will kill both of us.” He scratches his nose lightly. “So do an old man a favor, huh? Pretend we never talked.” He rises, stretching his large frame slowly. He looks at Sinbad and slaps him on the shoulder. “And just a warning, kid—twins run in the family. Her mother’s side again, not mine. Good luck.”


End file.
